Aw MAN!!!
God damn. The Mole was Bill. Heather was just a big loser. Not only was she not Moley Russell’s Wart, she knew that Bill was the Mole and gave him to Dorothy. I should have known that Heather wouldn’t pull off anything. Those Texans never seem to do well in these reality shows ( *cough * Colby *cough *). And now I’ve got to write two entries for Uncle Bob.
Mofo mole.
That having been said, how much is Anderson Cooper my boyfriend? Well, let me tell you
THIS MUCH!
And then I started to think about my affair with the Verizon Guy. Who would I pick? Maybe I’d just let them duke it out. My, that would be entertaining! Duke it out without their shirts on. And Verizon Guy would be throwing punches, saying ‘Can you feel this now? Good.’ Actually, I think Anderson would make better boyfriend material than Verizon Guy. Anderson’s got that whole dashing and debonair thing down. And he’s a Vanderbilt, so he’s all snobby and pretentious too, a combination I can’t seem to resist. Plus, he’s four years older than me, so he fits into my whole ‘Older Man’ requirement, whereas I suspect that Verizon Guy may be a bit wet behind the ears. He seems too eager to please, you know? Like the bitterness hasn’t had time to soak in yet.
Can you tell that Esteban left for Milwaukee? Yeah. I thought you could. He’s right. I AM wild this year. And the sad thing is that Penny and Carissa are just stoking the flames. They want to go out again on Friday night. To the Bad Bar, of course. And I’m going to Milwaukee the next morning, but then, has that ever stopped me before? No. Not really. Because I’m a wild child or something. The only thing is that this time, I will be driving down and doing the shopping marathon and also I’ve made a promise to myself that I’m not going to get drunk at least until JournalCon in October.
Chyeah. Like that’s going to happen with all the wildness.
Speaking of wildness, I’m going to be the hottest juror at the courthouse on Monday. Seriously. They want ME. I’m going to be making the decisions that uphold the legal system. Or I’m going to be discounted as biased because maybe the victim will be a curvy round sex goddess who had hippy parents and likes to dance on the bar to the ‘Tootsie Roll’ song. One can only hope.
Last night, my mother requested Esteban and my presence at her house for dinner. Apparently, Mafia Grandma would be in attendance as well.
I don’t mind going over to my mom’s house, honestly because she’s an excellent cook. But her two-bedroom duplex is the same size as my last apartment. It’s so damn small. She pulls out the table to accommodate more than two people and then it is simply impossible to move. Of course, she’s got the place crammed with her mismatched furniture, so there is a computer desk, full dining room table and chairs , Hoosier cabinet, full buffet hutch and a tropical forest of plants all crammed into a 12×8 room. It is literally impossible to move around it all. What is more, Mafia Grandma brought over her yippy little Pekingese, which is the bookend to my mother’s yippy little Pekingese. Esteban and I ended up eating in the living room with M.G. The two yippy little dogs were trying to jump into our laps and eat directly off our plates and I couldn’t punt them because M.G. was watching. No. I jest. I wouldn’t really kick one. Much.
From the dining room, I hear my mother begin a litany to my little 4-year-old niece about how evil Auntie Weetabix was when she was younger. About how messy I was and how Mo didn’t want to share a room with me because I was messy. Um, hullo? We were BOTH messy, but suddenly history has turned Mo into the gleaming perfect poster child who, at the tender age of five, was complaining and saying, ‘Mother, I simply cannot share a bedroom with Weetabix because she is far too sloppy for my taste. As you are well aware, my habits range to the pristine and austere Oriental simplicity and not this organic disorganization of my roommate, with whom I have nothing more in common than a few shared chromosomes. Please, Mother, I beseech you to find other sleeping arrangements for me so I will be spared these atrocities!’ Mo was laughing. Then she added to my impressionable niece that Auntie Weetabix used to pummel her within an inch of her life. And then she mentioned that I once tricked her into misbehaving so that I could tape it and show Mom.
The nerve!
I piped up. ‘Excuse me, but don’t tell her that I beat you up because she will believe you and think I will beat her up. Secondly, you dirty rotten liar, I ought to beat you up right now for spreading such lies!’
You see, what really happened was that Mom had screamed at me because she heard someone jumping off the furniture in our room and onto a bed. But it wasn’t me. I’m not even exaggerating here. I just didn’t jump on beds. It wasn’t my style. And I was taught to have too much respect for furniture to use it for acrobatics. Mo, on the other hand, was uncontrollable but somehow had the reputation of being an angel. I seem to remember that Mother’s logic was that Mo was far too short to climb onto her dresser therefore it HAD to be me. Thus, despite my pleas of innocence, I was sent to our room for punishment. The logic behind that is strange, since that was actually the scene of the crime, but then, Mom really wasn’t a shining example of good parenting.
Mo, because she was a wretched little creep, came into the room to gloat over the fact that I was serving time for the crime that she committed. I was angry. I believe that I was crying from the injustice of it all. I was desperate to clear my name. Thus, I turned on my tape recorder and asked her how she normally climbed up on her dresser to jump off the bed.
It was the 4th grade equivalent of a wire tape. Mo fell for it completely, being not an especially brilliant five-year-old. She was more than happy to demonstrate no less than three times how exactly she got up onto the dresser by pulling out the drawers and making steps. Not only did she replicate it, but also NARRATED exactly what she was doing.
As soon as I had adequate proof of Mo’s guilt, I stomped out of the bedroom feeling righteous and vindicated and played the tape for my mother.
She gave me a spanking for being so sneaky and sent me BACK to my bedroom. Mo never got punished.
And last night, as Mom was retelling the story, suddenly Mo was an innocent victim and I a ruthless charlatan who delighted in manipulating Mo to get her into trouble. She then actually had the audacity to imply that perhaps I had been the jumper all along and fabricated the story of Mo being the jumper, as she was a na’ve and sensitive child and was prone to my evil ministering. She continued on, despite the fact that I tried to explain that I was just a child myself and not the criminal mastermind that she was making me out to be. I mean, sure, I was bad sometimes. I did, along with Mo, put food color all over her Pekingese, giving us the world’s first Punk Rock Dog. (Even then, she had an affinity to yippy little dogs). But not nearly as bad as I should have been or COULD have been, which is probably the reason I have such an urge to be a wild girl now. I was always the responsible one when I was a kid and even now I get no credit for it. Mo was laughing so hard that she could barely breathe because she knew that Mom was completely spinning everything due to her poor addled delusions, and she thinks it’s funny, the way that Mom blindly favors her even when she sounds absolutely insane.
Esteban started to sneeze uncontrollably and I took that as a perfect excuse to leave and then rant to Esteban for ten minutes, while he sneezed and tried to breathe. Poor guy.
Maybe he’s allergic to complete and utter bullshit.
